


Who Could Claim the Sky

by lavvyan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: mcshep_match, F/M, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:17:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world ruled by the Wraith, Rodney McKay is just trying to keep his head down. When a new group of prisoners is sent out to build a supply road, events are set into motion that throw Rodney's life out of balance – and might force him to betray his greatest secret…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Could Claim the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> To be on the safe side, please let me assure you that certain characters' ideas of what a woman should and shouldn't be capable of are in no way my own. Thank you.

**Who Could Claim the Sky**

From Ellen Patts' "Changeling, or The Two Bodies of My Soul": _The first time my mother Changed in front of me, I started to cry. There she was, beautiful as ever, but her legs had disappeared and instead she had the lower body of a horse! The sight scared me so badly I had nightmares for months, terrified of faceless horse-women stealing me away._

 _I was five years old and had no idea that one day, this Change would be mine._

***

The morning air was cold enough to make Rodney shiver as he stepped out of his tent. The thin sunlight did nothing to warm him up, and the fog clung to his leathers, making them creak. He rubbed his arms through the thin linen shirt and scowled at the wet ground. Summer was coming on slowly, as if it too had been cowed by the Wraith and was loathe to show itself lest it be dragged off to somewhere even more pathetic than this miserable corner of the world. Rodney didn't even want to think about how far back last night's heavy rainfalls had set them in their work.

He made his way over to a convenient tree and relieved himself – no need to brave the stinking latrine for only a piss – and went to assess the damage. On his way through the camp, someone handed him a tin cup filled with steaming liquid. Rodney grunted his thanks and took a sip. The tea was criminally thin, but at least it was something to warm him up. Someone else handed him a piece of flatbread and some hard cheese – no more porridge until the next supply run. The carts were already overdue and people were getting nervous. If the Wraith didn't feed you anymore... Rodney shuddered, sipped his tea, and ignored the worried faces around him as he strode past the few miserable fires, damp wood smoking so badly it left everyone in the immediate vicinity red-eyed and coughing. He made his way around piles of wet shovels, barrels, spades and ploughs as well as the occasional wheelbarrow as he neared the construction site. No one was talking much; the silence of workers who knew their palms would be bleeding that night.

The ditch looked even worse than expected, the ground on either side eroded, the lines intended to keep the road straight either torn away or disappeared entirely. Mud filled the ditch about halfway to the top, thick sludge that would be impossible to clear away without further damage to man and material. Two Wraith sentries were watching him silently from the other side of the ditch, their sickly grey wings only a shade darker than the pale fog. Rodney swallowed and looked away.

"That's gonna take a while." Ronon had stepped up next to him, eyeing the damage with his usual stoic expression.

"Obviously." Rodney pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the impending headache. "I'm going to speak to Todd. Cleaning up this mess is going to be a lot easier if we wait a day or two for the ground to dry."

When the Wraith overseer had first announced his self-assumed name, Rodney had only blinked at him. Seriously, _Todd_? But this particular Wraith actually seemed to have a weird sense of humour, as evidenced by his frequent offers of handshakes. It made him even creepier, if that was possible, but it also meant that every now and then, he was open to suggestions.

"He should send a runner to see how the cutters are doing," Ronon said. Rodney nodded. The woodcutters were a day or two ahead of the road workers and shouldn't have suffered overmuch from the rain, but if the ground had softened too much it would be hard to avoid the usual dangers like falling branches and widowmakers. He wouldn't put it past those idiots to clobber themselves to death with their own damn trees while slipping in the mud.

"I'll take care of it," he said. With a last disgusted look at the muck-filled ditch, he turned to talk their resident evil overlord into not killing half his work force by giving them an impossible task, see to it that the other half of the work force didn't kill itself by falling tree, and inquire once more about the missing supplies before someone started an ill-advised revolt. _Again._

Just another day at work camp.

***

From Logan Jean McKay's "Letters to Kaleb": _You know Rodney always wanted to be an engineer. He had all these big dreams about taking up studies at Rahall as soon as he was done at Larra and become the greatest engineer of all time. He'd return home a celebrated genius and make mining safe in both Melia and Nella before he went off again to dazzle the world with the brightness of his intellect. I think he could have done it, too – Rahall actually accepted him – but then the War broke out and everything changed._

 _For all of us, everything changed._

***

The supplies finally arrived two days later, and with them, thirteen new prisoners. They were a pathetic lot, half-dead from their forced march over the new road, and Rodney doubted he'd keep even half of them alive for more than a fortnight. Not that it mattered much; the lands were full of potential workers for the Wraith to 'recruit,' and he'd long ago given up on getting attached to anyone. Except for Ronon, maybe, but that was different.

One of the new arrivals was a woman, whom he put in co-charge of the food supplies together with the blonde who'd been managing the cooking fires so far. He had no use for a woman in the ditch, especially not for such a small one. The twelve men were assigned to tents in groups of four; enough tents were empty to make housing them no problem.

Rodney gritted his teeth as he remembered what had happened to the inhabitants of the last tent to become vacant. With the tracking stones in their backs, running away was always a bad idea, heavy rainfalls or not. Running away when the work was paused for a day and the Wraith had enough time on their hands to turn hunting the fugitives into a sport? Really, _really_ bad idea. Everyone still cringed whenever a bird passed overhead, the memory of Wraith circling lazily while they waited for their prey to tire too fresh in their minds.

When he'd first heard that the Wraith were building supply roads, Rodney had thought it was a joke. Those people… _things_ … could fly; what the Deeps did they need roads for? But having wings didn't mean wanting to carry everything everywhere, and now that the Wraith ruled the known world, they needed an infrastructure. Rodney just wished he weren't the one who had to build it.

He left Ronon in charge of unloading the supplies and went back to the ditch. A lot of the drying mud had already been cleared away, but the ditch had become so wide they'd need a lot more filling material. The earth was still far too soft to be forced into any semblance of stability. Rodney had suggested they fortify the sides with planks – Ancestors knew they cut down enough trees – but Todd had waved that thought away. He preferred to send more men to the nearby stone quarry to get more rubble. Rodney carefully considered the Wraith's bared teeth and the way his skin seemed to glow with unnatural life after his recent feeding, and had refrained from arguing.

One of the new men was standing thigh-deep in half-dried mud, holding his spade as if he'd never seen one in his life. Rodney rolled his eyes. Most of the Wraith's prisoners were soldiers, but this one had obviously never been on latrine duty. Rodney gave him half an hour before his first blisters.

"I realise that you'd be more familiar with a musket," he snapped, only to be met with a startled gaze when the man looked up, "but here's a thought: shovelling mud is easier when it's done with a shovel, not a spade."

The man looked down at his spade. "What's the difference?"

Rodney bent down to pick up a discarded shovel and threw it into the ditch. The man caught it easily with his left hand, now holding both tools.

"It's deeper," Rodney said, already turning away. He'd better go see how Ronon was doing with the supplies. "Try it."

"Thanks," the man called after him as he walked away.

Rodney ignored him.

***

From "Bosenrung's The Wraith and the Art of Warfare, Edition II": _The humans never truly had a chance. The Wraith were vast in number, strong and swift and in charge of the sky. And although many of the halflings – the serpentine Taranith, the equine Satedith, the arachnid Manarith – fought on the humans' side, both changed and in their human form, they couldn't change the outcome of the War. Instead, they and their kin got nearly obliterated as the Wraith forces swept across the lands. Humankind and their allies lost, a whole world becoming prisoner to the Wraith._

 _But no one lost as thoroughly as the Mirdith._

***

If Rodney had known that the man he'd taken pity on would turn out to be such an idiot, he would have hit him over the head with the shovel to put him out of his misery.

"If you can't keep your mouth shut," he said, cutting the man from the stake none too gently, "at least be smart enough to stay away from Todd."

The man grimaced, rubbing his scraped wrists with blistered hands as he took two wobbly steps forward. His lips were chapped badly, his skin burnt from spending the entire day in the blazing sun without water or even a patch of shadow. Rodney refused to help him and crossed his arms instead.

"He started it," the man said petulantly, listing to the side. Rodney surprised himself by catching the man's elbow before he could go down. The man grinned at him, which naturally caused his lower lip to split at last and start bleeding. Rodney snorted.

"Yes, I'm sure that your occupying the moral high ground will be a consolation when he sucks you dry." He tugged and the man went willingly. They had a semi-routine by now, with Rodney making sure the man made it back into his tent and at least got some water before he passed out, occasionally helped by one of the supply women; the small one, who seemed to regard the man as her responsibility. For all her care, Rodney wasn't sure why the man was even still alive; usually, the Wraith were a lot quicker to make an example of someone. Perhaps Todd found him amusing.

The man became decreasingly coherent as they made their way back into the camp. Rodney huffed as he found himself having to support more and more of his weight, the two of them stumbling on the uneven path.

"S'rry," the man muttered. Rodney shook his head and didn't reply.

"John!" a woman shouted. Rodney's head came up in surprise and he saw the small supply-woman running towards them. She slipped beneath the man's other shoulder and helped to support him; still, by the time they reached the tent, Rodney was sweating profusely. For such a thin guy, the man – John, apparently – sure was heavy.

"Thank you," the woman said as they lowered John onto his pallet. He was barely conscious, and Rodney wondered if he'd survive the night.

"You're welcome," he said absently, and turned to go.

"Please." The woman caught his sleeve. Rodney's eyebrows shot up; that was new. Usually she just thanked him and watched him leave. He raised his chin defensively, convinced that whatever she was about to ask of him, he wasn't going to like it.

"What?" he snapped. The woman looked at him calmly.

"There must be something you can do. He will die if he continues like this."

Rodney grimaced. He was perfectly aware that it was only a matter of days until he lost the next of his workers – and a rather decent one, at that – but that didn't mean he could do anything about it. "Yes, and if he could just keep his mouth shut, he might not be in this mess. It's his own fault." _Not mine,_ he thought.

The woman still held his sleeve between her slim fingers. "I know. But you are the engineer. You can keep him away from the Wraith, can you not?"

Rodney choked on a laugh. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the Wraith are _everywhere,_ " he said. She just continued to look at him, small and serene. He sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

She smiled and inclined her head. "Thank you," she said again, and turned to the pallet. John seemed to have fallen asleep, breathing deeply as she knelt down beside him and reached for a nearby pitcher and a mug. "John," she coaxed gently, "you must drink."

John mumbled something. Rodney left them alone.

Dusk was creeping in as he stalked through the camp, frowning at himself. Why had he gone and promised to take care of that suicidal idiot? He never played favourites; that way lay nothing but trouble. He was the engineer in charge of this Ancestors-forsaken road, yes, but that didn't mean he had any obligation towards the workers who built it. He was as much of a prisoner as everyone else, and if the Wraith – or humans, for that matter – ever found out what he was...

He shuddered, banishing the thought and ignoring the way his heart had started to beat faster. There was absolutely no sense in dwelling on might-bes and could-have-beens. He'd already learned that the hard way.

Ronon was sitting by one of the cooking fires, obliterating his bowl of beans with customary fervour. Rodney plonked down on the log beside him, accepting his own bowl and a piece of bread from the worker who maintained this particular fire. He dipped his spoon into the beans, blew a few times to cool them down, and swallowed his first mouthful.

And nearly spit it out again.

"Are they trying to poison us now?" he spluttered once he'd managed to swallow the disgusting concoction.

Ronon shrugged. "The new woman can't cook," he said, scraping the last beans from his bowl. "I've had worse."

"So have I," Rodney said, "but not voluntarily."

Ronon shot him a toothy grin. "If you don't want it," he began, and Rodney hurried to get his bowl out of reaching distance. He stuffed another spoonful into his mouth, burned his tongue, and glared at Ronon as he tried not to taste too much of what he was eating. He just hoped the bread was all right, otherwise he might have to make suggestions to Todd about his next potential victim.

"I need you to keep an eye on someone for me," he said between mouthfuls, pointing at Ronon with the spoon.

Ronon nodded. "Sheppard?"

"Who?" Rodney asked, confused.

"Thin guy, gets tied to the stake every other day." Ronon shrugged. "Good worker, but talks too much."

"Oh. I thought his name was John."

Rodney was pretty sure that Ronon had picked up the eye-rolling from him. "Yeah. John Sheppard. Former commander, if you believe the rumours."

"Well, he's going to be a _dead_ former commander in two days if I don't get him away from Todd." Rodney finished his beans and set the bowl aside with something approaching gratitude. Usually, he'd be asking for more, but today the bread would have to be enough. "Can you use him at the quarry?"

Ronon shrugged. "Probably." He tilted his head and looked Rodney up and down. "You hot for him?"

"What?!" Rodney pointed at him, open-mouthed, then flailed his hands to convey just how _wrong_ that was. The mere idea - "No! That's -" He flailed some more, words lining up in his throat too fast for him to get them out. "No! And I'm going to forget you even said that!"

"Sure." Ronon grinned, and clapped him on the shoulder as he stood. "Gonna go make sure no one's planning anything stupid," he said, rolling his head in a way that made his spine crackle. "See you tomorrow."

Rodney waved him off, staring balefully into the fire as he chewed on his – edible, thank the Ancestors – bread. John Sheppard seemed to be far more trouble than he was worth, and Rodney was helping him only because the woman – _Sheppard's_ woman – had asked. He was fulfilling an obligation, that was all.

No use getting close to anyone. And he didn't want to, either.

***

From "Bosenrung's The Wraith and the Art of Warfare, Edition II": _The Mirdith had always been few in number. Unfortunate winds and a lack of skill took their toll on those who would conquer the skies; the Wraith, jealously guarding what they considered their territory alone, often disposed of the rest. When the War broke out, the Mirdith thought that if they stayed out of it, they would be safe._

 _Instead, the refusal to engage became the very thing that led to their downfall._

***

Rodney blew out a breath as he appraised the ditch that was now well on its way to becoming a proper road. Thanks to the rainfalls and subsequent mud slide, it was far too wide in places, its edges clumsily straightened in a way that hurt to look at. A group of workers was busily digging further into the forest, gradually narrowing the road back to regulation width. Not that the Wraith cared, that much was obvious, but Rodney still was a self-respecting engineer. He wasn't quite ready to let go of his professional integrity.

The drying ground had been levelled as well as was possible with only half the equipment they needed, and the first layer of fist-sized stones had been brought in from the quarry and dispersed over the native earth. A second layer of smaller rubble would be created later that day, and while they were hopelessly lagging behind by now, Rodney was still hoping to move on reasonably fast once the cement had had a chance to set enough to allow the final layer of gravel to be spread on top of it. This wasn't road-building the way it should be done; not by a long shot, but the Wraith had been very clear: they wanted simple supply routes, nothing fancy. Gravel would have to be enough.

"You're making progress."

Rodney flinched at the raspy voice coming from right behind him, his heart skipping a beat before it settled into a moderate gallop. Todd let out a hissing chuckle and stepped up beside him, looking at the workers milling about in the ditch. They appeared very busy all of a sudden, none of them daring to look up.

"Yes, ah." Rodney swallowed. His palms were sweating and he wiped them absently on his leathers. "I expect we'll be able to move the camp in another four days. Five on the outside." No matter how long he'd been working with the Wraith, they never ceased to make him nervous – Todd more than most.

"Very good." Todd nodded down at the workers. "I don't see Sheppard."

The way he drew out the name gave Rodney goosebumps. It sounded like _Shepparrrrrd;_ like a tomcat purring at the thought of something he might eat later. Rodney's fingers clenched into fists and he forced himself to release them. "Yes. I, uh, sent him to work in the quarry. It seemed... more suitable." _And it keeps him out of your way,_ he didn't add. From the amused expression on Todd's pale face, he had no trouble understanding the things Rodney didn't say.

"I will leave you to it, then." Todd walked away while Rodney fumbled for a needless answer. His grey wings flexed and spread and Rodney shut up with an involuntary whimper. Moments later, the Wraith took to the air, no doubt to intimidate poor Peter Grodin and his woodcutters. Rodney took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to convince his hands to stop shaking.

"It was a kind thing you did," someone said behind him. Rodney neither squeaked nor flailed as he spun around, and besides, no one was looking at him to argue the point. No one but Sheppard's woman, that was, and Rodney took another deep breath, preparing to tell her in excruciating and debilitating detail just what he thought of people who crept up on other people, especially when the people who were being crept-up upon had just had to deal with a ruthless, life-sucking, pale-winged menace.

Sadly, all that came out was a breathless and far too high-pitched, "What?"

The woman smiled and handed him a mug of cold tea. He looked down at it, stupefied, and then took a sip out of sheer self-defence before clutching the mug protectively against his chest. What did she _want_ from him? He'd already done as she asked, so there was no reason for her to talk to him except maybe to apologise for her abysmal cooking. The tea tasted all right, though. Considering how easy it was to mess up tea, that was completely unexpected, and Rodney peered at her suspiciously.

"You made Ronon take John to the quarry, did you not?" At Rodney's cautious nod, the woman smiled. "I wished to thank you for your assistance, and for your generosity in taking care of him. You did not have to do that."

Rodney finally regained some of his balance, enough to snort and say, "Well, obviously not, but that's no reason to waste a perfectly good worker." He paused for a moment before he added, "Even if he is stupid."

The woman looked as if she might be suppressing a grin. "He can be a little... headstrong," she allowed.

"Yes, well. As long as he doesn't do it in my camp, I don't care." Rodney eyed her, still clutching the mug. "If that's all?"

The woman inclined her head. "Yes. If there ever should be anything I can do for you in return, please do not hesitate to ask for my assistance."

Rodney tried to think of a situation where he might need the help of an imprisoned supply-woman who couldn't cook. Nothing came to mind, and he shook his head to clear his mind. "Ah. Thank you?" he hazarded. Something about the way she held herself made him feel unbalanced, and small talk had never been a strength of his. Still, something made him want to try, and that was novel enough to make him fumble for half-remembered phrases. "What's your name?" He cringed inwardly even as he said it.

"My name is Teyla Emmagan, daughter of Tegan," the woman said, and while the words were delivered with perfect serenity, Rodney still felt as if he'd just run headlong into a brick wall.

Teyla Emmagan. _The_ Teyla Emmagan, leader of the Athosians. Even Rodney had heard of them; her clan was notorious for being remarkably successful in ambushing and dispatching the Wraith. If they'd finally caught her, why didn't they execute her immediately instead of putting her to work? What was she doing in his camp? He didn't _want_ her in his camp!

"Uh. Pleased to meet you," he said faintly. The woman – Teyla Emmagan; the Ancestors must _hate_ him – smirked slightly as if she knew exactly what was going on inside his head. The smirk looked disturbingly like Sheppard's.

"As I am you," she said, inclining her head again although Rodney suspected that this time it wasn't so much for the sake of politeness as to hide her amusement. "I apologise, but I fear you must excuse me. Sora has much to teach me yet about the adequate preparation of food."

"Sure," Rodney said, his fingers clenched tightly around the mug as he watched her leave. Resistance fighters, former commanders, Ronon, and a Wraith who liked to make jokes.

It was a miracle he was still alive.

***

From "Bosenrung's The Wraith and the Art of Warfare, Edition II": _The human resistance never managed to become significant in number. With the Wraith watching the sky and their followers infiltrating each of the larger settlements, it was next to impossible to set up reliable communications or gather in groups that were large enough to do any serious damage. The War was over, the fight continued only in small pockets and through sabotage and ambush._

 _The cause may have been a noble one. Alas, it was ultimately doomed to failure._

***

The next morning, one of Rodney's workers was dead.

It happened all too often. Too much work with too little food, the long marches to reach the camp in the first place, resignation and plain exhaustion – all took their toll. Rodney had learned to accept that he couldn't save everyone; in fact, all evidence so far suggested he couldn't save _any_ one. He dealt with it by not getting attached, by not asking for any names, by avoiding to memorise any faces. Most of all, he dealt with it by trying not to pay attention to the shallow ditches that formed an erratic line alongside the road, small mounds where the grass would grow just a little greener.

This was different.

"Don't look," Ronon said, his voice unusually sharp as he jerked Rodney away from the patch of dew-damp moss that held the body, only a few steps away from the camp. But Rodney had already seen the naked back, the ruins that remained of the man's shoulder blades, the strips of flesh that had been cut away. He felt all the blood drain from his face, knees giving way as he stumbled, and he would have fallen if Ronon hadn't yanked him up and dragged him on. Someone else was reaching for his other arm but Rodney didn't look, couldn't look, concentrating on the ground beneath his feet as if his life depended on it. Bile rose and he swallowed it down, one hand pressed to his stomach as he tried to breathe.

"Mirdith," one of the gathered workers said, and the others picked it up. "Must've been, look at his shoulders," and Rodney let out a long, shaky breath. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. The hands on his arms tugged at him, pulling him somewhere, but he couldn't work up the interest to see where they were going. Then he was dropped, gently, on one of the logs around a cold cooking fire, sagging until he thought he'd slip right off again. Hands grasped his face and made him look up, even though all he wanted to do was curl up tight and tighter until he was small enough to disappear.

Sheppard crouched before him, his face inches away as he stared at Rodney. His expression was unreadable as he gave Rodney a little shake. "Come on, McKay, that's good, keep looking at me. Can you hear me?" Rodney blinked at him, and Sheppard patted the side of his neck. "There you go, no, keep your eyes focused on me. Right. Good. Now, I want you to drink this."

A crude mug appeared out of nowhere, attached to a small brown hand. Rodney blinked again. Not out of nowhere; Teyla. She pushed the mug at him and he took it automatically, his fingers clasped loosely around it.

"Drink," she encouraged him quietly. "It will do you good."

Rodney swallowed the first mouthful of tea before he was even aware that he'd raised the mug to his lips. The tea was cold and bitter, but after the first gulp, his stomach settled down a little. He took a more cautious sip, noticing for the first time that his hands were trembling. "Ronon?" he asked, in a voice as shaky as his fingers.

"He's taking care of things," Sheppard said, probably meaning it as a reassurance. All he managed was to remind Rodney of the 'things' in question; of the blood glistening dark on a ruined back. He swallowed hard, breath growing shallow and uneven as he fought against the rising hysteria, but he could still hear the murmurs of 'Mirdith' around him as the workers lingered. Ancestors, no one had ever taught him how to deal with this.

"Hey, shhh," Sheppard murmured. Rodney stared at him, his legs panic-twitching with the urge to run away even though there was nowhere he could run to. Sheppard looked back steadily for a moment, and then he closed his hands around Rodney's shoulders and pulled. Rodney didn't put up any resistance, eyes closing as he slumped forward, his forehead resting on Sheppard's bony shoulder. "Breathe, Rodney," Sheppard said, and Rodney took a deep breath, and then another one. Sheppard smelled of dirt and sweat and something else, something Rodney couldn't define. He puzzled over it while his heart slowed down again, and little by little, the shaking stopped. A small hand was rubbing circles up and down his back, slow and soothing – Teyla Emmagan, humanity's fiercest resistance fighter – and he let himself take the touch for the comfort it was, just for a moment. He didn't remember the last time someone had reached out for him with no intention to hurt.

"All right," he said against Sheppard's collarbone, "all right, I'm fine," even though he wasn't. But he couldn't afford to show his weakness in front of everyone like that – he was lucky enough that they seemed to think he just didn't have the stomach for blood – and so he pulled away, refusing to meet anyone's gaze as he wobbled to his feet, clutching at the mug for extra strength.

"Are you sure you should –" Sheppard began, but Rodney cut him off.

"This is my camp," he said, glad to find that his voice didn't crack, "my workers, and Todd is going to expect a report from me. I'll take care of it." He paused, bit his lip, and finally raised his chin. "Uh. Thank you."

There wasn't much left for him to take care of. Ronon could be scarily efficient at times and he was more than familiar with Rodney's stubborn streak. By the time Rodney reached him, the body had been taken away. One more ditch for the side of the road.

"Someone got it into his head that the guy was a Mirdith," Ronon said. He threw Rodney a quick glance; Rodney looked around to make sure no one was watching before he gave a minute shake of his head. There weren't any Changelings in this camp; none apart from him and Ronon, that was. "The Wraith are taking care of the guys who did it. Todd's gonna order more workers."

Rodney grimaced. No group of new workers ever made it to the camp without losing someone along the way. In the meantime, the Wraith would drain the life from whoever had killed that poor bastard increment by increment. They might be murderers, but no one deserved that.

"I hate this," he said unhappily.

Ronon's big hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed. "I need more time," he said quietly. Rodney just nodded. He felt incredibly tired. Ronon shook him a little. "No giving up now, McKay."

"Just keep going," Rodney murmured. Ronon would get them out of there. He had promised as much, and he always kept his word. Rodney just couldn't remember what he kept going for.

***

From Logan Jean McKay's "Letters to Kaleb": _They lost the War and now they blame us for it. Never mind that the Wraith outnumbered us and most of us had only ever flown for fun; they honestly expected us to die for them. Traitors they call us, collaborators, as if the Wraith hunting us down wasn't a hint! But reason is lost on them. They are blaming us, they are killing us, and I don't know how long it will be before someone drags me out of bed in the middle of the night and takes a knife to my back._

 _I don't know what happened to my brother. I don't know what happened to you. I just know that if anyone finds out what I am, I'm dead._

***

The cement had dried and the last layer of gravel had been spread and stamped down. Rodney walked along the new stretch of road for one final inspection, ignoring the five fresh mounds of earth off to one side. One murder victim and the shrivelled remains of four fanatics. Another empty tent.

He sighed, both at the futility of it all and at the crooked, uneven patch of road where the rainfalls had washed away the ground. It looked horrible, but they could always pretend that this was on purpose, a place where two carts going in opposite directions could avoid each other. It was sloppily executed, but he preferred his interpretation to the knowledge that he was building roads for people who simply didn't care.

Rodney slowly made his way back to the camp, blinking against the sudden brightness as the sun rose above the trees. Birds twittered and fluttered from one branch to the next, insects buzzed through the air, and somewhere behind a row of firs, he could hear the quiet gurgling of the small streamlet that was their only reliable water supply. If Rodney hadn't been about to give his report to Todd, he might found the scenery peaceful. Even so, the twinge of nervousness in his belly seemed a little fainter than usual.

In the camp, workers were milling about, stacking tools onto one of their two carts and taking down tents in a barely-controlled chaos while pale-winged Wraith guards watched them with impassive faces. Ronon was probably around somewhere organising their impending departure, but Rodney didn't spot him. Teyla Emmagan and the other supply-woman – Sonja? Sorka? – were busy loading the second cart with what remained of their provisions. Rodney eyed the depressingly low stack of sacks and crates and hoped the next supply run would arrive soon. Ever since the murder, the workers had been on edge, a thread of anger and rebelliousness running through the camp that reminded Rodney of an unopened barrel of gunpowder sitting too close to a fire. One spark, and the whole thing would end up in shouts and soot and bloodied limbs strewn all over the place.

A sharp cry startled him from his reverie. Heads turned as the workers stopped whatever they were doing and looked towards Todd's tent. Rodney cursed and broke into a run. He wormed his way between wheelbarrows loaded with tools and tent cloth, nearly ran over a worker so thin that a collision might have snapped him in half, and skidded to a stop just as another hoarse yell broke the sudden silence.

Sheppard was on his knees in front of Todd, held down by a guard on each side. His face was contorted with agony, and... Rodney fought down a sudden wave of nausea. Sheppard's shirt was torn, blood trickling down his chest from where Todd's hand pressed firmly against it. He looked thinner, fragile somehow, his dark hair streaked with silver and his face etched with lines that hadn't been there the day before. Todd snarled, and Sheppard's back arched as more of his years were drained from him. He screamed.  
Rodney didn't know he was moving until he was reaching for Todd's arm. "Wait!" he gasped, tugging at the black leather. Todd's lips pulled back in another snarl, but he wrenched his hand away from Sheppard's chest. Sheppard sagged, kept from falling over only by the guards' grip on him. Rodney pulled in a sharp breath and took an involuntary step backwards as Todd turned to him, rage burning in his pale eyes.

"Do not forget your place, _engineer_!" the Wraith snapped. Rodney swallowed, light-headed, but he planted his feet and raised his chin.

"We're running out of workers," he said quickly. "Sheppard is good, experienced," he hurried on as Todd's arm twitched in his direction, "I need experienced workers! It's in your own best interest not to kill him!" _Or me,_ he thought hysterically. _Please don't kill me._

Todd thrust his hand at Sheppard and Rodney flinched, certain that Todd would suck Sheppard dry, but the Wraith only gave Sheppard a shove. Sheppard's head lolled with the movement. "He is undisciplined," Todd spat. "What good is one experienced worker if he disrupts the efforts of all?"

"He won't," Rodney said, raising his own hands in a pleading gesture. "I'll make sure of it. I'll vouch for him."

Todd gave him a long, hard look. Then he nodded, slowly. The sheer relief nearly made Rodney sway on his feet.

"Your responsibility," Todd said. "One more transgression and I will kill you both."

Rodney gulped, and nodded. Todd turned back to Sheppard, who hung between the guards, possibly unconscious. He tipped Sheppard's head back, smirking at the glassy eyes in that sunken face. Then he slammed his hand against Sheppard's bloodied chest, wrenching another broken shout of pain from the man as pure life was forced back into him. Rodney watched in awestruck horror as the lines on Sheppard's face smoothed out again and his skin took on a healthier colour. Sheppard gasped and tried to twist away from Todd's hand, but the guards held him firm until Todd nodded at them and pulled his hand away. The guards let go, wings brushing the dry ground as they turned in unison and walked towards the camp. Workers scattered and tried their best to appear busy. Sheppard stayed on his knees, hunched over and one hand clutching at his chest, his breathing harsh. A small scattering of white hairs at his temples reflected the sunlight. Todd hadn't returned everything, then.

"Take him. He will be useless today." Todd gave Sheppard one last look, his expression entirely unreadable, and then he vanished into his own tent. Rodney reached for Sheppard with shaking hands, trying to pull him to his feet.

"Come on," he said, eyes flickering back to Todd's tent, "before he changes his mind."

Sheppard staggered upright, swaying against Rodney, a dazed look on his face. He stumbled as Rodney started to tug him towards his tent, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the ground. No one helped them as they weaved through the milling workers, and Rodney wasn't sure if the whispers that followed them were impressed or threatening. Not one to take any chances – except when he was facing down Wraith; Ancestors, had he really just done that? – he got them into his tent as quickly as he could without Sheppard falling over his own feet, letting out a breath of relief as the flap fell closed behind them.

"Sit," he ordered, and manoeuvred Sheppard over to his cot. Sheppard sat down obediently, still silent, still out of it. Rodney crouched before him, peering worriedly into Sheppard's eyes. "We have a few hours until I have to take the tent down." He looked at Sheppard's chest, still trickling blood. "I, uh. I'm going to have to clean that up."

He started to get up, but Sheppard's hand shot out and grabbed his forearm. Rodney blinked at him, and Sheppard's eyes were clear though they remained lined with exhaustion. Sheppard's other hand slipped around the back of Rodney's neck and Rodney blinked again, his thoughts staggering to a stop as Sheppard pulled him in and bumped their lips together in a clumsy kiss. The contact was brief, but Rodney felt as if ages had passed before Sheppard let go of him, eyes slipping closed as he sank back on the cot.

"I... what?" he spluttered, heart pounding, but the only reply he got was Sheppard's deep, even breathing.

***

From Ellen Patts' "Changeling, or The Two Bodies of My Soul": _It's impossible to describe how it feels to Change. No matter if you're a Satedith or a Mirdith or a Dorandith, your body grows new limbs, although 'grow' is not the right word, for they are there even when they are not. There are other benefits as well. The Dorandith can breathe underwater. The Manarith can jump twenty times their own length. The Satedith are as strong as the horse that makes up their second half. And yet, all of this is nothing compared to the way your body feels when it stretches into the shape it's meant to be._

 _A bird cannot explain what it means to fly any more than I can explain what it means to Change._

***

They didn't talk about it. After two days, Rodney wasn't even sure it had happened. Sheppard wasn't acting any different, and that was perfectly all right because Rodney had promised himself that he wouldn't get attached anymore. He was a… a trunk of solitude in a forest of lesser trees, standing proud and solitary and without any birds shitting on the branches.

Except he'd already interfered with Todd on Sheppard's behalf, and if that wasn't a huge pile of guano right there he didn't know what was. And now it seemed that Sheppard was watching him, all the time. Wherever Rodney looked, Sheppard was already there, shovelling in the ditch or dragging stones from the quarry or sitting on a log, sweaty and dirty and looking unfairly attractive as he watched Rodney from half-lidded eyes. Had he done that before? And he and Teyla joined Ronon and Rodney at the cooking fire more often than not, and while it was nice to have someone to talk to who'd do more than nod and ask if Rodney was going to finish his beans, it was also unsettling to have that someone be Sheppard, him of the smirks with only one corner of his mouth and the jokes that always seemed to have a hidden barb inside.

The thing was, if Sheppard had kissed him and couldn't keep his eyes off Rodney, that probably had to mean there were some definite feelings there, maybe, right? And Rodney didn't know what to do with that. People didn't stare at him unless they were contemplating whether or not they could hide his body inside a layer of rubble, and they didn't develop feelings for him other than murderous rage. Ronon was different, but for a very good reason, whereas Sheppard shouldn't be anything more than the idiot with the spade. He shouldn't be anything special, but no matter how much he tried to convince himself that Sheppard's staring was creepy and wrong, Rodney couldn't help staring back.

"What the Deeps do you think you're doing?" Ronon asked. With the rains over, the sun had suddenly turned hot enough for Todd to allow for a short break when it was highest, and Rodney had been watching the workers lay down their tools and wipe their dripping foreheads when Ronon had come up behind him. He flinched, feeling the heat climb to his face as he tried to be angry instead of guilty. He had no idea what he was doing.

"I don't see how that is any of your business," he said haughtily.

"It's my business if you're getting too attached," Ronon said, as if Rodney hadn't been telling himself the same thing over and over again.

Still. "It can't be much of a difference to…" he looked around furtively. Three Wraith guards were keeping watch on the other side of the ditch, looking bored. They kept to the shadows of the tree line, well out of earshot, but Rodney still lowered his voice before he continued, "… to do _that thing_ with four people instead of two." An escape was an escape, after all, and four was still a small enough group to make it without too much of a fuss, right?

Ronon sighed and scratched his beard. "That's not what I'm talking about." He seemed to choose his next words very carefully. "How much do you know about Sheppard?"

Rodney crossed his arms. "Enough," he said, even though that was a lie. He didn't know anything about the man, and he didn't _need_ to know anything about the man, because nothing was going to happen between them. He liked Sheppard the way a friend liked another friend – the way he liked Ronon, and he was going to say as much, except that Ronon's next words stopped him short.

"Then you know he hates Mirdith, right?"

Rodney felt his arms sink to his sides as he stared at Ronon. Ronon was scratching the back of his neck and looking up at the sky, grimacing, and Rodney wanted to be sick. "Why?" he asked faintly. He hadn't thought that John would -

"He was commanding a small unit. 'Bout fifty people, I think." Ronon took a deep breath. "They were sent out to negotiate a treaty with the Mirdith, only the Wraith showed up instead. No one realised those were the wrong winged guys before it was too late. Sheppard was captured. Everyone else died." Ronon stopped, eyed Rodney's clenched fists, and went on in a more gentle tone. "Word is that the Mirdith were in on it, that the whole thing was a set-up. Teyla said that Sheppard's promised to kill everything with feathers unless it kills him first. That's why he keeps getting into trouble. I don't think Todd finds it very funny anymore."

"I…" Rodney swallowed, and tried again. "I don't see what that has to do with –"

"If he finds out what you are," Ronon said, fiercely enough that Rodney snapped his mouth shut, "he'll kill you. Don't think he won't, McKay. Don't let your guard down." _Because I can't protect you if you do,_ Rodney heard, and he swallowed again.

"I'm not that good at flying, anyway," he said shakily, trying for a smile. He failed pitifully, not only because that was an outright lie. He knew it was stupid to get involved with anyone and he didn't _want_ to, but…

But. There wasn't anything rational about that sort of thing, either, was there? Rodney could tell himself to stay away from Sheppard until he was blue in the face, and he'd still be drawn to those half-smirks and glittering eyes.

Ronon looked at him for a long time. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said finally, turning away before Rodney could work out a reply.

He wouldn't have known what to say, anyway.

***

From Ellen Patts' "Changeling, or The Two Bodies of My Soul": _Have you ever run so hard that your legs burned and your knees felt like they had liquefied; so hard that your heart pounded as if it might break a rib and your lungs didn't seem large enough for your body; so hard that your throat hurt like someone had shoved a rusty grater down your windpipe and you wanted nothing so much as to throw up everything you've ever eaten if only it means you can stop?_

 _That's how we felt when we ran from the Wraith._

***

The downside of being the engineer in charge – the upside being that the Wraith let him live and he didn't have to pick up a shovel unless he really wanted to – was that he was in charge of everything. The woodcutters had run into some trouble – broken tools, rations gone bad, one man _getting eaten_ by a _bear_ – while the main group had unexpectedly hit upon a sand deposit that was remarkably easy to dig through and made for excellent filling material. The distance between the two groups had dwindled down to almost nothing, the sounds of sawing and shovelling, warning shouts of "Timber!" and calls for more gravel echoing off each other as men did the work that would earn them their next meal and the chance to see another sunrise, if it didn't kill them first. Rodney hated it, but it was a comfortable hatred by now, well-worn like his scuffed boots and his two shirts.

Peter Grodin was a capable enough technician – more used to building aqueducts than felling trees, but they'd all had to learn fast out here – but Todd suggested that he didn't keep Rodney around to loiter by the roadside, so perhaps he should go and oversee the lesser minions. Because it was Todd, Rodney didn't argue. He did take a wheelbarrow with a few small sacks of beans and assorted supplies, feeling awkward and a little guilty because technically, the supplies for the two groups were kept strictly separate, but he'd rather have everyone stretch their rations than lose yet more men to exhaustion and starvation.

He had to look away from the grateful expression on Grodin's face.

"So," he snapped, fingers drumming against the side of his leathers, "what did you morons break this time?"

They still clapped him on the shoulder when he left.

The sun was dipping below the treetops when Rodney gave his report to Todd. The woodcutters would be fine with some decent tools, the orientation lines for the workers were as straight as one could hope for without proper equipment, and could he go now, please? He'd been spending the day tromping through the woods and sweating like a pig, and if he didn't get to cool himself down soon he might just burst into flame and burn down the whole damn forest, dried as tinder as he was.

Todd bared his teeth in something that wasn't quite a smirk and waved Rodney away. Rodney tried not to look as relieved as he felt as he stomped through the camp towards the streamlet, but judging from the way Ronon laughed at him as he passed by he probably wasn't very successful. Rodney was only a two-minute walk away from fresh, cool water, though, so he merely grinned back and kept his tongue. He dragged his wet, clinging shirt over his head as he saw the first reflection of water through the trees, still grinning in anticipation.

And then he stopped.

Sheppard… John was standing in the streamlet, naked, the water barely reaching halfway up his calves as he scrubbed himself down. His clothes were laid out to dry in the grass, and Rodney clutched his own shirt tight as he stared. John was… thin. Scrawny, really, with scars drawing ragged lines across the sun-darkened skin of his upper body, some of them still red. His torso was a little too long and his legs a little too short, and with his hair plastered to his skull like that his nose looked impossibly big in his narrow face. He was a mess of imperfections, and Rodney wanted him. Not because John was attractive – because he was, still, strangely enough – but because he was there. Because he was John Sheppard, and Rodney had wanted him almost from the beginning.

Rodney swallowed, trying not to look at John's cock as John stared at him with wide eyes. _I hope you know what you're doing,_ Ronon's voice whispered in his head, and no. No, he didn't have the faintest idea.

Rodney swallowed again. "Is there room for one more?" he croaked. For once, John didn't answer with a smirk or a quip that would turn the whole situation into a joke. He just nodded, taking a step back as if to invite Rodney into the rivulet, and Rodney didn't stop to take his boots off as he dropped his shirt and waded into the water.

John was still staring when Rodney stopped in front of him, so close he imagined he could feel the coolness streaming off the water droplets on John's skin. Water sloshed in his boots and squelched around his toes, but he didn't care. All he cared about was John's expression, scared and defiant and expectant and just a little bit hungry, and this time it was Rodney who reached out, fingers slipping over wet skin as he slid them from John's neck into John's hair. He tugged, and John's eyes fluttered closed, and then their lips touched, John's mouth cool against Rodney's, soft and supple and impossibly tantalising. Rodney closed his own eyes and deepened the kiss, letting his breath out in a sigh as John's lips parted to the first tentative touch of his tongue.

This was so good, and so stupid, and so insane. Good, because John kissed with abandon, his chest pressed against Rodney's as his fingers trailed down Rodney's back. Stupid, because they were standing in a small stream, two minutes from the camp, where someone – like, oh, say, a Wraith guard – could walk by at any moment. And insane, because if John found out that Rodney was a Mirdith… yeah. Rodney had seen the look John got whenever he ventured too close to Todd, the way his eyes grew hard and intense, gleaming with potential violence. Rodney had no doubt that someone with eyes like that could kill without second thought.

And Rodney was throwing himself right into it, fully aware that this thing between them could only end in blood and tears. He lived in a prison camp, in a world that was ruled by the Wraith, so it was all going to end in blood and tears, anyway.

 _Might as well,_ he thought nonsensically as he let John drag him to the shore and down into the grass, _might as well fly before I fall._

***

From "Bosenrung's The Wraith and the Art of Warfare, Edition II": _The Wraith were not about to let their prisoners run free, of course. Curious stones that some speculated to be pieces of the Wraith's living Hive were inserted into the humans' backs without much care for potential damage, enabling their guards to keep abreast of their location at all times. That way, even the most densely-forested areas held no hiding place the Wraith would not descry immediately. Any attempt to extract the stones invariably led to death from blood loss and an unknown infection that left its victims a broken, ravaged shell._

 _It remains unknown to this day whether any successful escape attempts were made during the Wraith's reign. Considering the circumstances, it seems unlikely._

***

"So how exactly do you guys know each other?" John waved his spoon between Rodney and Ronon, who exchanged a glance. Rodney cleared his throat and stared into the fire, their blackened pot of venison stew bubbling merrily above the flames. It had been Sora's turn to cook – Teyla mentioned her name often enough for even Rodney to remember it – and since Todd had allowed one of the infrequent hunting trips to tide them over until the supply wagons arrived, the evening meal was perfectly edible for a change. Ronon took a huge bite of day-old flatbread and chewed noisily, fixing John with a steady gaze.

"I mean, sorry for pointing this out," John went on cheerfully, apparently unable to take a hint, "but that friendship thing between you two just doesn't seem very likely."

Rodney grimaced without looking up. He could have pointed out that 'the relationship thing' between him and John didn't seem very likely, either. John was a soldier; Rodney wouldn't know what to do with a crossbow if someone handed him a step-by-step manual along with it. John was charming if he wanted to be; Rodney was so bad at lying he couldn't even deliver an insincere compliment. John was a human; Rodney was terrified of John finding out that he was… not.

"It's a… life-and-death kind of thing," he said finally, gesturing at Ronon but taking care that nothing dripped off his spoon. He'd taken another trip to the woodcutters that day. Grodin's people were starting to move faster again, and Rodney was tired from his forced march through the woods. Hungry, too. "You know. The bonds of peril that bind men in a… manly kind of way."

There was a brief moment of silence around the fire. Rodney looked up to find the other three looking at him with varying degrees of bemusement.

"What?" he asked defensively, feeling the blush creep up his cheeks and sparing a moment to be grateful for the mild sunburn that would hide it.

John shook his head and grinned. "So you're saying Ronon saved your ass."

Rodney bristled at the implication. He was perfectly capable of being a lifesaver; had been, in fact. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Ronon beat him to it.

"Other way around, actually," he said, still chewing. John frowned, puzzled, and started slightly when Teyla put her hand on his arm.

"You need not tell us about it, if you don't wish to do so," she said firmly, the hint of warning in her voice enough to make even John shut up. Rodney was all in favour of dropping the subject, although there was always a possibility that John would ask him again later, when they were alone. Ronon, however, winked at her and swallowed the last of his bread.

"Not much to it," he said. John perked up and gave Teyla's hand on his arm a patronising little pat. Teyla somehow managed to roll her eyes without actually doing so. Rodney snorted; he'd have to work out how she did that. Then he remembered what story Ronon was about to tell, and scowled at the flames.

"We got new supplies that day," Ronon said with a shrug. "One of the horses pulling the carts got stung by something and bolted. Crashed right into the other one. The carts went over and I ended up under them. McKay's good with a lever." He shrugged again. "I got free."

Rodney blew out a breath. It hadn't been quite like that, of course, though Ronon could hardly tell it as it had been. A horse had bolted and Ronon had ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, that much was true. Rodney remembered the smell of wet fur in the cold, drizzling rain, and the screams of the other horse as its leg broke under a wheel. People had been shouting and running about like headless chickens, completely useless while Ronon – a barely familiar face back then – was slowly crushed to death under the combined weight of two solid-wood carts loaded with supplies.

There had been no lever. There hadn't been _time_ for a lever. Rodney had thrown one quick glance around, just enough to make sure no one was paying any attention to him, positioned himself next to the upper cart, covertly grabbed the nearest edge… and Changed it.

Mirdith were no lighter than other people. Their bones weren't hollow, their wingspan nowhere near enough to lift them up. But there were other benefits to the Change, unique to each clan, and theirs was both among the dumbest and among the most useful. It was the reason that, of all the Changelings, they were the ones who could claim the sky.

They could make things light.

He'd lifted the cart just enough to let Ronon do the rest of the work and wiggle himself free. He'd been hoping Ronon would chalk it up to whatever it was that made people stronger in times of danger, but no such luck. He'd known, of course, that Ronon was a Changeling; somehow, he always knew, but no one else ever seemed to. He hadn't expected Ronon to be smart as well as strong.

"What, McKay really saved your life?" John laughed, but it sounded delighted and strangely proud rather than mocking, so Rodney let it pass. "I guess you owe him, then."

"I do," Ronon said, far too solemn, and their smiles fell away as they pondered how easy it was to die out here. At least, that was what Rodney was thinking about, letting out a depressed sigh as he considered the likelihood of actually getting away. It wasn't that he didn't trust Ronon; he did. But even if they did get away and Ronon figured out a way to disable the stones, the Wraith were everywhere, like pale crows circling overhead, looking for carrion. And where would they run to, anyway?

"I have a son," Teyla said suddenly, and everyone turned to look at her. There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"You don't look like you do," Rodney blurted. Ronon slapped him upside the head. "Ow! She doesn't!" he protested, and then realised that it might not be such a good idea to admit he had been looking at a woman's figure so closely while the woman herself and his, his… _John_ were sitting across from him. "Um."

John just shook his head. Teyla smiled, but she didn't look like her heart was in it, and her voice sounded a little too flat as she said, "Thank you, Rodney. I believe that was the most honest compliment I have ever received."

"Don't mention it," Rodney murmured, hoping that she really wouldn't. No sunburn in the world could hide the fierce blush he felt burning on his face.

They fell quiet again, but the silence between them had taken on a different quality than before. Rodney couldn't put a name to the feeling that seemed to have taken hold of his heart and sent it into an uneasy, discomforting rhythm.

Beside him, Ronon shifted. "What's his name?" he asked quietly.

"Torren Kanaan," Teyla said. She stared into the flames, her expression somewhere between fond recollection and deepest regret. "I do not know if he is alive."

No one knew what to say to that. John picked at his flatbread, his face shadowed. Ronon just sat there, looking as if he was lost in some painful memory. Rodney dragged his spoon through the remains of his stew. His sister was probably long dead. The thought made him lose the last of his appetite.

They sat in silence until the fire had almost burned down. Rodney couldn't have said why none of them simply got up and left. Perhaps they all felt a little less alone this way.

***

From Logan Jean McKay's "Letters to Kaleb": _Addie came by today. She brought me your ring. I don't even know how she got it. She told me you [section unreadable, ink dissolved; water damage?] waiting for you. I think in a way, I always will be._

 _I love you. May the Ancestors keep your soul in their palms._

***

The summer rains returned with a vengeance, and with it the supply carts, laden with provisions and a handful of tools to replace the ones that had been broken, and seven new workers for a road that would likely see them all dead well before it was finished. And the Sickness.

It came every few years, tearing trails of devastation across the land as it killed humans and Changelings alike, only to disappear again with no one knowing what actually caused it. Was it the rain? Plant spores? An illness brought on by the Wraith, as some people thought?

"I don't care what it is," Rodney snapped. "My people are dying here! Teyla says she can come up with something, but the herbs she needs don't grow in these parts. If you would just send two of your guards –"

"I said no, McKay." Todd's tone was mild. He seemed slightly amused by Rodney's outburst, which on one hand was a good thing because it meant he'd get to live out the day. On the other hand, he'd never liked being dismissed like that.

"But –"

"My Queen believes that your people," Todd said, and Rodney recoiled from the sudden anger in his voice, "are like sheep. They breed, they live out their boring little lives the way we tell them to, and then they die. What does she care if this little flock," Todd swept his feeding hand in the direction of the camp, and Rodney clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking, "expires?"

Rodney scowled at him, his whole body trembling with anger now. "And who's going to build your road if we're all dead?"

Todd tilted his head. "The herd is large," he said simply. Rodney didn't really have an answer to that, but he didn't need one. Todd dismissed him, and Rodney knew better than to keep arguing.

He took a deep breath as he stepped outside and into the steady downpour, big warm droplets soaking him through within moments. The supply carts hadn't left, their wood dark and slick as they dripped water to the muddy ground. The drivers had already been sick when they'd arrived, the first two sloppy mounds at this particular patch of roadside, and the Wraith were probably waiting to see if anyone in the camp survived to drive the carts back to wherever they'd come from. Four of the new workers had died over the past three days, and of the other three, only one showed no signs of the Sickness yet.

No one was working on the road right now. The ditch would have filled with mud faster than they could shovel in the gravel and the cement would have run away into rills spiderwebbing their way across the forest floor. The woodcutters' camp was silent as well; Rodney had no idea how many of them were sick by now.

Everyone had lots of time on their hands to be afraid.

Rodney walked through his camp, the black fireplaces silent and cold. Teyla and Sora had a low cooking fire going in one of the empty tents, but the food they produced was sparse and had to be dished out in shifts. The near-constant hunger added to the overall misery of the situation, and as the dissatisfied murmurs grew louder day by day, Rodney feared they'd have a revolt on their hands before long.

One way or another, people were going to die.

"What did he say?" Sora asked as Rodney stepped into the tent she shared with Teyla. Ronon was sitting cross-legged on one of the pallets, too tall to pace inside the tent although Rodney could tell he wanted to, while Teyla and Sora occupied the other. Rodney grimaced.

"That his Queen doesn't believe in veterinarians." At their blank expressions, he clarified, "He said no. I don't think he can do anything about it, even if he wants to."

Ronon's fist hit the pallet, but he didn't look terribly surprised.

"But…" Sora's pale face had turned almost white. She clenched her hands into shaky fists, her voice trembling as she said, "But my father is already sick." No one spoke. "My father is _sick,_ " she repeated, louder this time, her wide eyes fixed on Rodney as if he didn't understand the gravity of the situation.

"I can go," Ronon said suddenly. They all turned to stare at him, and he shrugged. "Nearest patch is about two days away, right? I can make it there and back in the same time."

"The Wraith would kill you long before you got there," Teyla said quietly.

"I can disable the stones," Ronon said stubbornly. He glanced at Rodney. "Wasn't going to use it for that, but…"

But saving everyone's lives was more important than escaping. And Rodney got that, he really did, except, "You'd never make it." His own voice was far from steady and Ronon scowled at him, but he pressed on. "Crashing through the underbrush, at the speed you'd need to go, you'd probably break all four of your legs."

Teyla blinked at that, but before she or Ronon could say anything, Sora was already turning back to Rodney.

"Then you have to go." Her eyes were dark ice, covering treacherous water. "You can make it."

Rodney froze. His breath, his heart, the rush of blood in his ears; everything stopped for a moment. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said weakly.

"I know what you are." Her voice was cold, so cold. Rodney stared at her, helpless, his body rooted to the spot as his mind tumbled into freefall. "I saw you help him." She tilted her head at Ronon, but her eyes didn't leave Rodney's face. "There was no lever. I saw you; I know what you are. You have to go."

Ancestors.

"I can't," Rodney whispered. Fine tremors were running through him now, but he still couldn't look away from her. "They will kill me." The Wraith would pluck him out of the sky before he could reach the clouds. Even if he got away somehow, the workers would tear him apart the second his feet touched the ground again. Everyone hated the Mirdith.

"How can you think of yourself at a time like this?" Sora demanded, her voice rising, "How can you –"

A heavy hand fell to her shoulder and spun her around. Rodney sagged as her gaze left him, his whole body shaking.

"Go," Ronon said. His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the threat in it. "Keep your mouth shut," and Sora swatted away his arm as if it were a minor nuisance, her cheeks filling with colour as she seethed at them.

"This isn't over," she snapped, and stormed out of the tent. Ronon looked after her, frowning, but Rodney didn't care where she was going. His legs wobbled and he would have collapsed right there if Teyla hadn't nudged him towards the closest pallet. He sank down heavily and rubbed an unsteady hand down his face, cold sweat and half-dried rainwater slick beneath his palm.

"She's going to tell them," he said numbly.

"No," Ronon said. He turned away from the tent flap. "You're the only hope she has for her father to survive. She won't tell anyone."

Teyla crouched before Rodney, slim fingers touching his arm. She searched his face, for what he didn't know, and finally gave him a sad smile before she pulled his forehead against hers. Rodney swallowed, and let his eyes fall closed.

"Does John know?" Teyla asked. Rodney shook his head, his forehead rubbing across hers. His hair was still dripping water. "You cannot tell him," she said, and he nodded, but dread had settled into his stomach like a chunk of ice, sharp and heavy. One way or another, people were going to die.

And he'd probably be one of them.

***

From "Bosenrung's The Wraith and the Art of Warfare, Edition II": _The Wraith were never discriminate in their killings; however, a captured Mirdith was something to be celebrated. Each member of the Hive would patiently wait their turn to pull their own small increment of life out of the man or woman, thus turning their captive's death into a slow process of dying that could last for days._

 _If, at any point, the Wraith gave a reason for their bizarre ritual, it has sadly been lost to time._

***

"I never see these things coming," John complained, flopping down on Rodney's pallet with a small grunt. With all the dampness of the last few days, the straw had begun to develop a rather questionable smell, and John dripping water all over it wasn't helping. Rodney thought about pointing that out, but decided against it. He liked having John in his tent. He wasn't sure why – with yet another two people dead, he certainly wasn't in the mood for sex – but there was something about John sharing his space that he found appealing.

"What things?" he asked absently. He'd fashioned himself a sand tablet from the side of an old supply crate and some of the sand they'd hit upon earlier that month and was busy calculating how long a ditch they'd have to dig to drown every Wraith guard in the mud. The results were depressing.

"Sora just planted a big one on me." John looked thoroughly weirded out as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. Little droplets of water were flying everywhere, but Rodney didn't care. His heart had stumbled in his chest and now seemed to be flailing around wildly in an effort to regain its balance. "I didn't even know she liked –" he went on, but Rodney interrupted him.

"Did she have a fever?" he asked, more harshly than he'd meant to.

John blinked at him, hand still in his hair. "What?"

"Did Sora look like she had a fever?" Rodney repeated, enunciating each word carefully, as if speaking slowly might give his racing pulse a hint.

"I don't know. I don't think so?" John let his hand drop as Rodney flung his tablet to the side and yanked on his boots. "McKay? What's going on?"

Rodney didn't reply. His mouth was dry as he stepped out into the rain and half-marched, half-ran over to Teyla and Sora's tent. It was empty. He spun around, nearly colliding with John as he took off in a different direction, trying to remember which of the tents was the one that housed Sora's father.

"McKay!"

"Not now," he snapped over his shoulder, mud squelching under his feet as he stalked up to the tent. He pulled the flap open and took one step inside. He stopped short at the sight in front of him, the air leaving his lungs in one long puff of breath.

Sora's father was lying on his pallet, covered in every blanket and scrap of clothing he owned, his red-rimmed eyes sunken in his pallid, sweaty face. Sora sat next to him on the floor, her eyes triumphant and fever-bright as she stared up at Rodney.

"What have you done?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Told you it wasn't over," she rasped, and promptly broke into a coughing fit. Even gasping for air didn't wipe the smile off her face.

"All right, what's going on here?" John asked from behind Rodney. He sounded a little worried and a lot angry, when it probably should have been the other way around. Rodney felt a crazed little laugh fight its way up his throat and stomped it down.

"You've been assaulted by a homicidal lunatic, that's what's going on." He scowled down at Sora, pretending that his hands weren't shaking as he clasped them behind his back. Her smile widened. "This doesn't change anything."

"What?" John asked.

Sora laughed. "Oh, but I bet it does." She turned toward John, who was still standing behind Rodney in the tent entrance. "Feeling warm yet, Commander?"

Rodney felt John tense and take a step forward. He grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the tent, sparing Sora a last glance as he dragged John back into the rain. "Don't. Todd will be happy to execute us both if you start something."

"If _I_ start something! Rodney, she –"

"I know what she did." Rodney stood there, the never-ending rain pouring down on him as he squinted at John, utterly miserable. "She did it to get to me. We had an argument, and I…" he gulped, suddenly realising that, "Ancestors, John, you're going to _die._ She killed you and I… It's all my fault." His breath was coming in harsh, fast gulps, black and white patterns swirling before his eyes. He swayed, and might have fallen if John hadn't gripped his upper arms and kept him steady.

"Hey there, buddy." John shook him a little, peering through dark lashes that were dripping with water. "I'm not dead yet."

"You might as well be," Rodney said glumly.

"Now, none of that." John patted Rodney's shoulder and smirked, but his eyes stayed worried. "I haven't been sick in my life. I won't get sick now."

But by evening, his face was flushed with fever.

"Just a cold," he croaked, laid out on Sora's old pallet in what was now Teyla's tent alone. "Damn rain."

No one said anything, but they all knew better.

Rodney went back to Todd.

"Perhaps you are not as smart as I was led to believe, engineer." Todd tilted his head. "Why do you believe that anything has changed since yesterday?"

Because everything had changed. Rodney opened his mouth to say so, closed it again, and swallowed. His fists were clenched so tightly his fingers hurt. "I… I'll do whatever you want. Please."

"You already do whatever I want," Todd pointed out, his tone amused. "No."

Rodney sucked in a breath and nodded sharply. "Right. Fine." He turned to go.

"Night is falling," Todd said, as casual as a vulture approaching something that had just keeled over.

"Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious," Rodney said in a clipped voice, trying to keep himself together. Maybe Teyla could work out something without the herb. Maybe they'd find a patch somewhere close. Maybe they could –

"I believe we will be too busy keeping our eyes on the humans tonight to watch the sky."

Rodney wondered absently how many of these stutter-stops and starts his heart could take before it simply gave out, even as he jerked his head around to stare at Todd. The Wraith wasn't looking at him, busy brushing some invisible dust off his mottled feathers. He couldn't possibly mean what it sounded like he meant, Rodney thought hysterically, he _couldn't._

"What?" he asked faintly.

"Good night, engineer," Todd said, still not looking at him, and Rodney stumbled past the guards, out of the tent, and into the quickly fading daylight. Rainwater ran down his face and into his shirt collar, but he barely noticed. He wrapped his arms around himself in a poor approximation of a hug, trying to stop shaking as he contemplated throwing up.

"I can't do this," he muttered to himself, "I can't, I can't, I can't…"

Tears were mingling with the rainwater, brief splashes of warmth on his face. Ancestors, but he was tired. So tired, and so sick of being afraid. He wanted to curl up on his pallet and never get up again. He wanted to be in Rahall, warm and safe and celebrated for his genius. He wanted the Wraith to be gone and for Teyla to be with her son and for Ronon to have someone he could laugh with. He wanted John to never have lost his team instead of lying on a bunch of straw and slowly dying from the Sickness.

He just wanted to be anywhere but in this rotting camp, building this cursed road, nearly paralysed with the fear that someone might find out what he was.

"I don't want to do this anymore," he muttered, utterly exhausted, a strange fatalism spreading through him. He couldn't live like this. He didn't _want_ to live like this.

And he wouldn't.

He rubbed a dripping hand over his face, brushing water from his eyes. Then he started off towards Teyla's tent, his feet dragging with exhaustion. He felt numb inside, his heartbeat fast and uneven, but at least he knew what to do now.

John appeared to be in a fitful sleep when Rodney stepped into the tent, his pale face a stark contrast to his dark hair and eyelashes. A brief pang of _something_ fluttered through Rodney at the sight of him, but then he turned to Ronon.

"Todd said the skies will be empty tonight," he said without preamble. "I need you to disable the tracking stone."

Ronon looked at him sharply. "Does he know?"

"Seems likely." Rodney wiped a hand across his face. It was warm inside the tent, but he was still shivering in his wet clothes. No time to get changed, though. "But I'd still feel better if he couldn't track my every move."

"Yeah," Ronon said, and nodded at Teyla. She got up from where she'd sat cross-legged on her own pallet, watching them both with an unreadable expression.

"I will be back in a moment," she said, and slipped out of the tent.

"Sit down." Ronon pushed Rodney to her pallet, and he sat.

"Do I need to pull off my- _Ow_!" His fingers scrabbled at Teyla's blanket, digging into the threadbare fabric as Ronon did something to his back that pulsed like black fire along his spine, pressing against and between the vertebrae until Rodney was certain he'd pass out any moment. He didn't have the air to yell or even sob, but tears were leaking from his eyes for the second time that evening and he let them fall. It seemed like forever passed at least twice before Ronon brushed a hand across his shoulder and stepped away. Rodney pulled in an unsteady breath as the sharp pain in his spine faded to a barely-there throb, dragging his sleeve across his face and grimacing as all he managed was mix the wetness already there with yet more rainwater from his sopping shirt.

He didn't know how long he'd sat there, just breathing, before Teyla crouched down in front of him and handed him a mug.

"Drink this," she said, and he did. He'd been expecting the usual tea, so when the first mouthful of something very, very alcoholic seared its way down his throat, he coughed and nearly dropped the mug.

"Where the Deeps did you get _that_?" he wheezed. Somewhere off to the side, Ronon let out a snort.

"I am told that a supply person never reveals their sources," Teyla said smugly. Rodney smiled at her. He found it strangely comforting that even in a place like this, someone had found the parts and the energy to set up a still.

"Wha's going on?" John asked drowsily.

The smile dropped off Rodney's face. Ancestors, what was he doing? He didn't have the time to fool around. _John_ didn't have the time.

Teyla must have read something in his face, because she gently took the mug from him and pulled him into that familiar hug of hers, hands on his shoulders, her forehead touching his. Rodney breathed in her scent and allowed himself a moment of silent goodbye. Then he rose and walked over to Ronon, shifting awkwardly on his feet, not knowing what to say. Ronon clasped a hand around Rodney's forearm and nodded at him. Rodney nodded back.

John was watching them, his brows drawn together in confusion, slightly glazed eyes tracking Rodney as he knelt down beside the pallet. Rodney tried to think of something to say, but everything he could come up with seemed woefully inadequate. In the end, he settled on an inane, "I'm sorry," and leaned over to give John a brief kiss. He had nothing to lose anymore.

John's eyes widened with alarm and he pushed at Rodney's shoulders. "Rodney, what –"

Rodney stroked his thumb over the side of John's neck, silencing him. His heart was racing as he rose, pulled off his shirt, and let it drop to the floor. Then, for the first time since the War had broken out, he Changed.

It was like scratching his left arm and discovering he had a right one, too. His wings stretched awkwardly in the too-small tent, broad and of an almost golden brown, and blissfully dry. Rodney let out an involuntary sigh, feeling like a whole person for the first time in years, almost bliss, almost enough to make up for everything he'd gone through.

John sucked in a sharp breath, hand flying to his side, fingers closing around empty air where a sword might once have been. Rodney smiled tiredly, meeting eyes that had gone wide and cold, before a few quick steps took him to the tent flap and out into the rain, running, the Change heating his blood as he beat his wings, jumped.

And took to the air.

***

From Ellen Patts' "Changeling, or The Two Bodies of My Soul": _Change is freedom._

 _In the end, that's all there is to it._

***

He was flying.

Above the clouds, the last rays of the setting sun burned in his eyes and played in patches of warmth over the naked skin of his upper body. Rodney laughed with the joy of it, banking left to drag a wingtip through a cloud, leaving a trail of damp mist swirling up behind him. A few beats of his wings took him higher again and into thinner air, a darker sky; into a cold that breathed gooseflesh on his skin and made him feel wildly awake. He laughed again.

He was _flying._

As Todd had promised, the skies were empty but for him. If he wanted to, he could go anywhere, as long as he stayed away from the Wraith. If he wanted to, he could touch down in the middle of nowhere, conceal his wings, and make his way on foot to the nearest human settlement. If he wanted to, he could start a new life, maybe even find his sister and help her do whatever it was she was doing these days. Rodney was an exceptionally good flyer among the Mirdith, even if he sometimes had trouble with straight lines, and he was perfectly able to put at least a hundred miles between himself and the camp in one night. If he wanted to.

Ancestors, how he wanted to.

Rodney smiled up at the faint stars that would be his guidance for the next few hours. "You know, sometimes it's nice just to have a choice," he told them. Choosing the Lioness as his point of orientation, he adjusted his course and left the sun to disappear behind him.

Dawn had started to rise when he returned to the camp and the rain, cold and exhausted, the muscles in his back and chest screaming from the unfamiliar exertion. He botched his landing and would have crashed to the ground if a Wraith guard hadn't yanked him upright again. Rodney nearly thanked him before he remembered that one didn't harbour kind feelings towards one's oppressors. Still, he let the guard take a significant portion of his weight as he tried to get used again to the muddy ground under his feet, and then a second guard took his other arm and Rodney realised that people were shouting around him. He lifted his head, just in time to duck a stone that had been hurled at his face.

"Kill him!" someone yelled, and another voice chimed in, "Traitor! Had a good laugh at us, did ya?" The second man's voice broke on a coughing fit that sounded like he might be spitting up lung tissue at any moment. Rodney glanced around at the angry, hateful faces of the workers surrounding him. "He betrayed us!" he heard, and "Ancestors eat his balls and spit his eyes into the Deeps!" and of course the ever-popular, "Kill him, or we'll do it for you!"

More people were coughing than not, and Rodney wanted to yell back at them, 'I saved your lives, you miserable ingrates!' But he didn't. They weren't listening, and even if they had been, what difference did it make? They knew the Mirdith as evil and weren't going to challenge that assumption any time soon. Besides, he wasn't that good a person. He hadn't done it for any of them.

Todd suddenly loomed up beside him, tall and gaunt as always. "Conceal your wings," he told Rodney. Rodney Changed silently, wincing at the itch and the loss as feathers disappeared into his back. Todd nodded. His own long wings were spread slightly, the tips hovering just above the ground as he addressed the crowd. "Silence!" he bellowed. Miraculously, the workers shut up, unsteady coughs and the slick shuffling of feet in the mud the only sounds that remained.

"The execution," Todd declared loudly, "will be in two days. That should give the sheep time enough to recover so they can witness the death of their shepherd." The crowd murmured in incomprehension. Rodney couldn't entirely suppress a snort, and Todd smirked. "I believe they are looking forward to it."

"Why not kill him now?" someone from the back of the crowd shouted, proving Todd's point.

"Because," Todd said, baring his teeth. No one else called out to argue. Todd nodded at the guards and they began to drag Rodney to his tent, where two more guards were standing watch. Yet more Wraith had begun to place themselves between him and the workers. _Crowd control,_ Rodney thought numbly as he stumbled ahead. He blinked rainwater out of his eyes and Todd was beside him again.

"The herb," he said. Rodney's guards gave him enough lenience to fumble at his belt and unhook the pouch that was dangling there. He hadn't found very much – too much rain, and he was no herbologist – but it should be enough. He hoped it was enough.

"You'll give it to Teyla, right?" Rodney's fingers clenched around the pouch. He was so cold.

"You have my word," Todd said. Rodney believed him.

Todd left with the pouch and Rodney was shoved unceremoniously into his tent. He nearly cried with gratitude at the small bowl of hot stones that had been placed on the rackety table that usually held his few precious papers on road-building. The tent was warm, dry clothes spread out on his pallet, a mug of Teyla's cold tea waiting for him next to the stones.

For the first time since the rain had started, Rodney felt comfortable in his tent. Odd, that it should be two days before his execution, with John hating his guts and the rest of the camp yelling for his death.

Huh. He was going to die in two days. Or rather, he was going to start dying in two days, because a Mirdith's death was never quick if it was at the hands of the Wraith. John's agony would be nothing compared to his. He would have thought that the knowledge would make him panic, but his hands were steady as he sipped at his tea. Now that death had become a certainty instead of a constantly looming threat, nearly all of his fear and misery seemed to have left him. Perhaps he'd gone ahead and died already.

Rodney mulled that over for a while, but couldn't reach a conclusion. He was tired, warm and dry for once, and his mouldy pallet had never looked so inviting.

He slept.

The rain was still pattering down on his tent when he awoke. He had no idea what time it was, but Teyla was standing just inside the entrance, wet hair dripping. She held a bowl of something that steamed in the cooling air, a spoon already dunked into it, and Rodney was suddenly ravenously hungry. It had to be dinnertime, then. He sat up and reached for the bowl, and Teyla handed it to him. The beans were watery and underdone, but Rodney shovelled them into his mouth as fast as he could manage without choking. He patted the straw next to him. Teyla sat down, her sodden clothes leaving a wet patch on the pallet. Rodney didn't care.

"Are you well?" she asked.

"I spent too much time in the air after several years of not flying at all, my workers hate me, and Todd has scheduled my execution," Rodney told her between mouthfuls. "What do you think?" Then he caught her meaning. "Oh. Uh. I don't have a fever. I don't think I caught the Sickness."

She let out a small, relieved sigh and smiled at him. "That is very good news."

"Yeah." At least he wouldn't die before the Wraith could kill him. "How, ah. How is everyone? How's… how's Ronon? And, and you?" he asked lamely.

Teyla seemed to consider carefully before she answered. "Neither Ronon nor I got sick. Those who were not already with the Ancestors are recovering, if slowly. John is alive." Rodney let his spoon sink into the bowl and lowered his head, letting out a long breath. Teyla's hand was briefly on his back, rubbing up and down between the shoulder blades. "Sora is alive as well," she said after a pause, "but Tyrus is dead. Her father," she added, when Rodney turned his head to blink at her.

"Oh," he said.

John was alive.

Teyla hesitated. "Most of the woodcutters did not survive. Peter Grodin died last night."

Rodney closed his eyes. "Oh," he said again, faintly. Grodin had been a good man. Not a friend, not exactly, but capable enough to make talking to him almost worth Rodney's while. He was… he shouldn't have died. Nobody should have. Rodney cleared his throat.

"I… Did John… Did he say anything?" He looked down at his hands and found that his fingers were clenched into a painful tangle. He tried to pull them apart, but they only twisted more tightly.

"He is…" Teyla paused, then sighed. Her voice was gentle as she said, "He is not happy."

Rodney stared at the ground, the beans a hard ball in his stomach. He could imagine what that meant. John appeared to be rather easy-going, but he wasn't exactly… forgiving.

"I see," Rodney said quietly. It didn't matter. He'd always known that the thing between him and John wouldn't end well, and being proven right shouldn't hurt. He wouldn't let it hurt. In a little more than a day, the Wraith would kill him by small increments, and John would watch and do nothing, and then it would all be over.

Rodney was almost looking forward to it.

***

From "Bosenrung's The Wraith and the Art of Warfare, Edition II": _Ironically, it would be the Mirdith who brought about the Wraith's downfall. In hindsight, this makes perfect sense. Who better to sabotage a Hive than someone who can reach it through the air? Who better to coordinate attacks than someone who can cross a vast distance in remarkably little time?_

 _One has to wonder, however, what made the human resistance pause long enough to accept the Mirdith among their ranks._

***

The night before his execution, Rodney discovered that coming to terms with his impending demise was not as easy as it had first appeared to be. He wasn't afraid, not exactly… all right, yes, he was. One might even use the word terrified.

His tent was a little too small to really pace, but he did it anyway, two steps from the pallet to the table, another step from the table to the tent wall, three steps to the entrance, five steps back to the pallet. He could see the Wraith guards outside, dim silhouettes drawn by the rising half-moon. The rain had finally stopped earlier that afternoon, but the clouds hadn't dispersed until nightfall. Maybe Rodney would see the sun before the Wraith started killing him.

Rodney clenched his teeth and kicked the table, which was just as unsatisfying as the other twenty-three times he'd done it that night. He rubbed at his burning eyes and yawned, too tired to think, too worked up to sleep. He was going to cut a fine figure at the stake the next morning, with his bloodshot eyes and the way his body kept shaking. Maybe he would faint. A single spoonful of beans was all he'd managed to swallow for dinner before he'd set the bowl aside again. Fainting from hunger would still be less embarrassing than throwing up in front of everyone.

He wondered if they'd started clearing the ditch yet, or if Todd was going to wait until the ground had dried. Who was going to be the head engineer from now on, anyway? The logical choice would have been Grodin, but Grodin was dead. Ronon, perhaps. It would make sense to promote Ronon. He'd take care of things.

Ancestors. He was going to die.

Rodney ran a shaking hand down his face. He should have taken Teyla up on her offer to teach him meditation. Maybe then he wouldn't be such a wreck. Maybe then he could step out there in the morning with his head held high, strong, a striking figure of a man, and then they'd regret throwing stones at him. They'd tell each other about his accomplishments and watch with admiration as he…

… got tied to the stake and killed by the Wraith. The Deeps take them all.

"I'm going to die," he muttered. It didn't sound any less absurd than it had the first time.

Outside the tent, the guard-shadows moved. Wings rustled and spread, and then someone shouted, "Fire!"

Rodney stopped, staring in disbelief as the guards took off, the calls of "Fire! Fire!" spreading quickly as more and more workers woke up. He didn't smell any smoke, but had the light been flickering like that all the time? "The tools!" someone cried, and more shouts of dismay joined in. Something crackled, voices called for buckets, and then Todd started snapping orders into the growing ruckus.

Running footsteps approached his tent. Rodney jerked back and into the table as the flap was thrown open, but it was Teyla, breathing fast, her eyes glinting in the flickering light.

"Come," she said, and now Rodney _did_ smell the smoke, the vaguely resinous aroma of burning wood. "Hurry, we do not have much time!"

"What's going on?" he asked dumbly as he followed her out into the night, where the darkness had taken on a definite orange tint. At least two of the tents on the other side of the camp were in flames, one of them the tent where they'd stacked the wheelbarrows to keep them from rotting away in the rain. "Did you deliberately set a _fire_?"

Teyla grinned wildly. "We are escaping," she said, and her voice held a note of giddy excitement, threaded into something darker, something mean.

It was entirely possible that Teyla hadn't liked the way the workers had been calling for Rodney's blood. He didn't know what to do with that thought, but it made him feel strangely warm inside.

No one paid any attention to them as Teyla led him away from the camp and into the trees that led to the streamlet. Twigs bent soggily under Rodney's feet as he stumbled after her through the underbrush, the light barely enough to let him avoid any low-hanging branches. They splashed into the water and followed it, the shouts fading a little but not disappearing as they ran. Rodney panted, unused to running, and Teyla grabbed his hand as she veered off to the side, back into the underbrush.

"Where are we going?" Rodney shouted breathlessly, but Teyla didn't answer. A moment later, he saw why.

The road had lasted through the rain without any obvious damage, a straight band of gravel that cut through the woods to either side of them. A cart was waiting in the middle of it, carrying a few sacks and crates in the back, with John perched among them. Ronon held the drawbar in an easy grip, hooves shuffling impatiently on the gravel. He looked amazing in his Changed form, tall and strong and like he could outrun anything, and Rodney felt the first flutter of belief that they were really doing this, that they were really getting away.

"You people are crazy!" he shouted, laughter spilling out of him like sunlight, bright and warm.

"Shut up, McKay!" Ronon shot back, grinning, and then Teyla was shoving Rodney up the back of the cart and jumping up onto the driver's seat herself. Ronon gripped the drawbar tight and pulled, putting all his Changeling strength behind it. And then, unbelievably, they were off, down the road and away from the camp, and still no one seemed to be following them. If Ronon had deactivated the others' tracking stones as well, no one _would_ follow them once they were far enough away.

They were free.

"Crazy," he breathed, his heart pounding wildly, and he let out another small laugh.

Then he realised that right next to him, half-sitting, half-lying between a small crate and a sack of what had to be yet more beans, was John.

The laughter stuck in his throat and dissolved into smoke, much like the tents behind them, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. John had his eyes closed, but Rodney could tell that he wasn't sleeping; his expression was too tense, for one. His face was still too pale, the lines around his eyes too deep, and he looked thinner than the last time Rodney had seen him. But he was alive, and that was what counted.

They rode in silence, the cart shifting and jerking beneath them, and Rodney tried desperately to think of something to say. Then again, what _could_ he say? 'Sorry for lying to you, I just didn't want you to kill me'? That _was_ the truth, but it also sounded like something that would be hard to forgive.

And maybe it didn't matter, anyway. Maybe John was going to hit him over the head with a crate and kick him out of the cart and call it an accident as soon as Teyla fell asleep. Maybe. Probably.

Rodney cringed and shifted as far away from John as he could manage, which was about the span of two hands. He hunched in on himself and tried very hard to be as quiet and unnoticeable as possible, closing his eyes as the cart rattled on. Maybe he should just take off now. There'd only be problems if he stayed.

He jumped when he felt something bump against his hand. His eyes flew open and he stared, disbelieving, at the pale fingers that were nudging against his own. With his breath locked in his throat – or maybe his heart had finally punched a hole into his lungs and he was going to die of asphyxiation any moment now – Rodney looked at John.

John was looking back at him with an intense gaze, his expression unreadable, and for one insane moment Rodney wondered if there was a secret human military killing technique that worked with pressure points in someone's hand. Then John tangled their fingers together and squeezed, and instead of dying, Rodney found that his whole body was tingling as he drew in a breath that seemed to have twice as much air as usual.

"Really?" he asked, and his voice was shaky and too high and his eyes were burning from the stupid cold air and he probably looked ridiculously happy, but he didn't care because John gave him a small, tired smile.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Sorry for… sorry."

Instead of fumbling for a reply, Rodney simply squeezed John's hand in return, because non-verbal communication had seemed to work just fine with them so far. Feeling more daring than he had when he'd jumped into the sky, he pressed a quick kiss to John's fingers. His heart skipped a beat when John's smile grew a little wider, and he wanted to ask what had changed, how John didn't hate him, if he was going to wake up to find Todd standing over his pallet, ready to drag him off to the stake. But he didn't, and after a few minutes, John fell asleep, his fingers still loosely clasping Rodney's. Rattling through the darkness on a rickety supply cart, Rodney almost felt like he was flying again.

"This was far too easy," Teyla said. Rodney whipped his head around; he'd forgotten all about her, and the thought that she'd watched him and John renew their… _thing_ … made him clear his throat, hoping she couldn't see his rising blush in the moonlight. He opened his mouth to tell her that not everything had to be difficult, but she was already speaking again. "I wonder what Todd is planning."

Oh. _Oh._

"You think he's planning something?" Rodney asked, clutching at John's hand. Their escape had been easy, yes, but there had been a fire and shouting workers and wasn't it enough that they had gotten away?

"I am certain of it." Teyla tilted her head thoughtfully. "He is not incompetent, and yet no guard appeared to notice our departure. I find that to be… unlikely."

Rodney thought about that for a moment. "But what can he possibly achieve by letting us go?"

Teyla sighed. "That, I don't know." She looked up at the empty sky. "But I do believe we will find out."

***

From Logan Jean McKay's "Letters to Kaleb": _Another Hive has fallen. That makes it the second one this season. They say that the human resistance is working with a Mirdith now, an engineer who's great at sabotage. They say he's free to come and go as he likes, and the humans are actually protecting him. Maybe I should go, too. If nothing else, I can be one more pair of wings to help._

 _But then they also say that there's a Wraith who's started to negotiate with humans and is building a Hive without a Queen, and that can't be right. So who knows what's the truth?_

 _I think I'll go anyway. What do I have to lose?_

***

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 McShep Match, Team Work, prompt "road to nowhere".


End file.
